New Desire
by RinoaDestiny
Summary: *Clover* Did Bols have another ulterior motive to assassinating Oruha? Could it be the first time he laid eyes on Kazuhiko? *PG-13-rated to be safe for strong language and yaoi-ish thoughts*


Author's Comments & Disclaimer: 'Clover' is the property of CLAMP, and therefore all of their characters are theirs. I got this fanfic idea from a humorous bantering my bro and I had about Bols' (Barus') obvious attraction to Kazuhiko, and I quipped that that was one of the reasons why Oruha had to go. So, accompany me into the mind of Bols, to the night of the assassination.  
  
New Desire  
  
The day those damned Wizards call upon me to kill someone, I know it's not a normal day. I, the Leopard, the enemy of that blasted Parliament of snooty wrinkled old men and women, am about to receive my paycheck through the hands of my foes. And not just ordinary money, either – blood money. They want me to kill some singer, some woman who hasn't even broken into the mainstream yet. Her name's Oruha; she has long black hair and dark eyes. She also likes to dress like some gothic, yet angelic slut that prances the stage like a practicing whore. Of course the Wizards didn't talk about her like that, being that she's also the girlfriend of one of their deputy officers. I guess that what goes on in the backstage has to be kept silent, or else that boy of theirs will revolt.  
  
What about their whole damn military just mutinies and kills them? At least they will stop hounding me, then. Ah, yes…I remember. Tonight, my pay comes from their pockets. Just as well – if you can't kill them, rob them by doing a dirty deed of theirs that's top secret. It's not like as if those psychics don't have any cash filtering through their autocratic system. It's always better to do the jobs through the black market; that's the way I get things done.  
  
My men and I – we rely on no one but ourselves.  
  
So I'm perched up on this building overlooking the open stage of the livehouse. There are lights all below me, yellow, green, and white. Like a pastel wonderland that drugged people see only in their dreams. It's enough to make me sick. No one's on stage yet – I guess the little woman is busily arraying herself for her audience. And where's that damn boyfriend of hers? At least when I kill her, I want to see the expression on his face.  
  
Pain is always so beautiful to watch.  
  
Snickering behind my telescopic rifle, I raise my sights away from the stage and towards the front of the crowd. If her dear little boyfriend is sitting anywhere, it has to be up close. I skitter my sight away from a horrendous mound of old flesh sagging in the chair on my left, and immediately my eye falls upon a clean-cut youngster dressed in full military fashion. I focus in on him, and notice that his eyes are animated, glancing up at the stage like a kid being taken to a candy store. Yup – that's the boyfriend, I think as I let my eyes wander. He couldn't have been more than in his early twenties, probably twenty-three at best. Full black hair, shortly cropped with a small ponytail dangling off the shorn ends close to the nape of his neck. He even has a clip on his ear.  
  
I haven't seen a boy like that in years, let alone a woman who can actually look good without becoming a bitchy broad. But this boy offers a challenge; I can see the steel in his eyes even if he's relaxing. Too much of a soldier, and not enough nights of pleasure. I'm sure I can change that, if he's willing.  
  
A mouth that quickly changes from being happy to being disappointed. Ah, he's talking to another man. A broad-shouldered, silver-haired man that has no expression. He's stirring his martini with practiced fingers, his wrist enclosed by a metal-trimmed cuff. I switch back to the object of my sudden interest, just in time to catch a teasing scowl on his face. It makes him look younger, and I suddenly feel myself growing warm inside. Ha – so Bols, you old devil – you do have that side to you! Even my mother and father couldn't drive that desire from me during my youth, even if they disowned me and called me filthy and perverted. I guess repression doesn't help much, does it?  
  
A smile twists my face. So this singer, this Oruha, has this boy to herself? That can't be right, I think, as I examine his face. Dark eyes, a generous mouth that I long to claim, and pale flesh that that bitch undoubtedly bit during their nights of brief lovemaking. If she did, he has no scars or marks. What perfection! I laugh silently to myself, only to find the stage curtains parting to make way for the singer. For the whore. The boy's eyes light up and I see the love in them. Well, boy, whoever you are, you are about to find yourself losing your beloved.  
  
Perhaps then I could claim him for myself?  
  
This Oruha starts singing, her voice mature and warm, like too much honey offered to a ravenous bear. What do I know of bears? I'm a leopard, and even now, I see no gamboling animals in this society of ours where the outcasts are pushed to the brink of extinction. This country's Parliament wanted my hide for so long, and now I'm doing their dirty work – how ironic! Well, the most I can offer them is one pissed-off soldier. And his pain would be my pleasure. I raise my sight away from the delectable boy sitting near the stage, and towards the heart of the singer. She mouths off another word, some trash about happiness, and I squeeze the trigger.  
  
She falls off the stage, like a broken thing, and the microphone hits the floor like a pronouncement of her death. Suddenly, I hear noise and screams of fear – something that I prey on. The boy no longer sat at his table, being happy and quiet. Instead, as I focus in on him, I see him cradling the bitch in his arms, crying out her name. "Oruha!" I hear; a mellow voice that is pierced through with sadness and desperation. Hmph…if he only knew how desperate I was. I wanted to hold him in my arms, to strip off that uniform, and to call him mine.  
  
But I don't even know his name.  
  
Just then, that silver-haired statue became my savior. "Kazuhiko! Kazuhiko – let go of her. There's nothing you can do." Kazuhiko. I taste the name on my lips, and I like it. Something tangible to be felt – something strong and resilient. Heh…he'll have to be tough enough for me.  
  
I see him crying, and I'm happy. As I leave the rooftop before the military police swarm in and find me, I smile. Now I can go and claim that damned paycheck, soaked in the blood of that fallen singer, and I can also carry away with me the name of my new desire.  
  
Kazuhiko.  
  
I chuckle. 


End file.
